


In Tandem

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prison, Sad Old Men That Make My Heart Hurt, Scars, twin telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that when one twin feels pain, no matter where the other is, she or he feels it too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Tandem

**Author's Note:**

> A cross-post - http://logicalbookthief.tumblr.com/post/125693573359/in-tandem - that resulted from me thinking way too much about what Stan experienced during his homeless years, and wondering if Ford felt somewhat of it too, 'cause of the theory that twins can feel each other's pain without being there.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

I.

When they were infants, Stanford and Stanley were constantly in sync. For Mrs. Pines, who was the only person around enough to really notice, it was quite a baffling thing to behold.

If Stanford cried, Stanley cried, and vice versa; and this synchronized behavior didn’t cease as they grew, either. When Stanley fell from the top of an old armor he was attempting to climb and busted his knee, Stanford let out a near identical wail as he hit the floor. When Stanford crashed his bike and sprained his wrist, Stanley yowled as if the injury was his own.

Most curious of all was the May of the boys’ eighth year. The end of the semester was nigh, and Stanley - ever the stinker, even back then - was known to come down with a sudden case of _summer-is-almost-here-why-am-I-still-behind-a-desk_ -itis. Needless to say, when he started whining about a sore throat, nobody paid him much mind, and Filbrick was adamant that he stop faking immediately.

What was unusual was that Stan didn’t get sheepish or grumbly after being caught in a fib. And he actually _did_ look flushed and drowsy, so she convinced her husband to let him stay home, it was the last couple of weeks, what could it hurt?

Despite the fact that both of them technically worked from home, neither could devote much time to tending to their son, except to bring him food and medicine. Like with most illnesses, they figured that if the boy rested long enough, it would pass.

But Stanley grew more miserable each day, and oddly, so did his twin. It got to the point where he refused to leave Stanley’s side, even for school - which for Stanford _was_ a shock.

His father put his foot down, though, and Stanford was sent to class regardless, for all the good it did - he spent the first two lessons noticeably distracted, watching the clock and tapping his foot impatiently. It wasn’t even lunch yet when he approached the teacher and claimed they _had_ to send him home, _please,_ his brother was sick and he had to leave _now,_ making such a fuss that they were forced to call his folks.

Filbrick was livid, of course, saying that this behavior was unacceptable _and_ unwarranted, Stanley would be _fine_ in a few days. Bold as brass, Stanford persisted that _no,_ something was _wrong,_ and nothing could convince him otherwise.

She didn’t know what to make of her son’s vehemence, but Stanley’s lack of appetite combined with Stanford sounding so earnest and frightened didn’t sit right with her, so she relented.

The doctor came to the house that evening, intending to prescribe a bit of medicine to pacify a few fretful parents, as he often did.

He diagnosed a case of _scarlet fever_ instead.

With the proper antibiotics and care, Stanley made a full recovery, thankfully - but it was a dark time for the Pines family, who might’ve lost a child if they hadn’t caught it early enough.

In fact, not many non-professionals could pinpoint the disease before the trademark rash formed, yet Stanford had somehow realized the danger faster than anyone.

When questioned, Stanford could only shrug from where he sat at his brother’s bedside. “He’s my brother. I know.”

 

 

II.

 

Stan dug his fingers into the steering wheel, white-knuckled grip straining to remain steady, while the other pressed firmly against the knife wound in his gut.

_Keep adding pressure, don’t let up…_

It hurt like a bitch, but that had to be a good sign, right? Pain meant life. Pain meant he could make it to the hospital if he could ride it out, wave by wave, and keep from passing out…

The wound wasn’t that deep, he told himself, although he was too chicken to inspect the damage. Dead rats in a bucket was one thing, but watching his own insides spill out? _No thank you._

“Shit,” Stan shuddered, the movement stretching his already shrieking skin. “It’s c-cold…”

His heater was working like a piece of crap lately anyway, and what with the blood loss an’ all, Stan hadn’t gotten the chance to turn it on. Meaning he could feel every ounce of the December chills down to his very bones.

Stan promised himself that if he managed to survive this and skip out on the hospital bill without incident, he would buy the steamiest mug of hot cocoa he could find, complete with all the trimmings. And if he didn’t, well…

The least they could do was bury him somewhere warm.

_ _ _

Several state lines away, Stanford hissed and stiffened in his seat, clasping at his abdomen.

“What is it?” Fiddleford, who was bent over a book on the other side of the dorm, inquired.

“Nothing,” said Ford through gritted teeth, shaking the sensation away. “Just a stomach ache, I think.”

“Are you getting sick?” His friend muttered in complaint, “You’re shivering like it’s _not_ ten degrees too hot in here.”

Campus maintenance had fixed the malfunctioning thermostat so that the student body wouldn’t freeze. And in doing so, succeeded in making the dorms twice as hot as normal. During Finals week, too.

_That was Backupsmore for you…_

“Cold temperatures slow the flow of blood in the body,” he remarked, off-handedly, under his breath.

“Eh?” asked Fiddleford, eyebrow quirked.

“Nothing,” Ford repeated quickly, unsure of where the thought had even come from. “Never mind.”

 

 

III.

 

Ford had never cared for bullies, though he had dealt with his fair share of them throughout his life.

He was accustomed to the playground bullies from back home, the kind that became more obnoxious the more you matured, especially when you were on your way to gaining your doctorate three years ahead of schedule and they were probably selling toffee peanuts on the boardwalk.

Then there were the pompous, passive aggressive sort you encountered when you were older, whom were no less of a nuisance and rarely worth your time.

Flash Burgess fell into the latter category. He was a fellow Backupsmore student, and a grade-A asshole to everyone, not exclusively Ford - although that was how he became involved.

It began with a few not-so-subtle hints or quiet remarks about the 'freak with the extra appendage’. Whatever. Stanford was too smart to rise to such bait, too engrossed with his studies to care.

He heard Burgess make a derogatory comment about a female classmate whom Ford was rather fond of - who was really very nice and shouldn’t be subjected to such misogyny - but let it slide. Barely.

A lot of people assumed he was the twin without a temper. On the contrary, it was just that Stanley shorter fuse, so it always appeared that way. But once Ford’s fuse was lit, there was no chance of dousing the flames.

So when things with Burgess came to a head - too many overheard insults aimed at colleagues and professors Ford liked and respected, a particularly scathing comment on what a  _poor, mutated_ family he must’ve been born into - Ford told him that if he didn’t knock it off, Ford would make him.

The bully, gleeful at the prospect of establishing his superiority, challenged him to _try._

His opponent got in one lucky shot to the jaw, only because Ford was biding his time. The rest of the round, and the next, went to Ford, who promptly taught Burgess a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget: _Nobody_ messed with a Pines.

The fight had attracted somewhat of a crowd - most of whom were fellow, picked-on nerds - who were all-too excited to see a tormentor receive a taste of his own medicine. They even _applauded_. Ford appreciated the support, but he didn’t relish the attention, and opted to make a swift departure.

But he was victorious as he walked away, and on instinct, turned to share the news with-

-someone who was no longer there. Someone who was God-knows-where. And it was times like these, when he least expected, that he felt Stanley’s absence most keenly.

He supposed it didn’t matter. He could fight his own battles, always could.

 _However,_ Ford admitted to himself, as his feet took him towards the library, _it was_ nice _to know there was always someone willing to fight alongside you._

__ _ __

Halfway across the country, Stan spent his last reserves of cash on a decent-sized lunch at a local diner. He was due to fight Muttonchop Mike - no gloves, no gear, no referee - and needed all the strength he could get if he was going to replenish his finances.

Trying to fit his mouth around a forkful of food, he winced, finding that his jaw ached in a manner that wasn’t so much unfamiliar as it was perplexing.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ thought Stanley. _I wasn’t even punched yet and I’m sore!_

He could never seem to catch a break.

 

 

IV.

 

While Stan might not have been much of a student, he could learn fairly quick, given the proper motivation.

In prison, you learned through observation and experience, and if you were lucky, mostly the first.

He learned that if you kept your head down and minded your own business, you were more likely to make it out of the mess hall without a shiv shoved against your throat.

He learned that even if the guy getting the shit beat outta him in the cell across from yours was a decent fella, you were better off ignoring it, lest you be the one to end up in a body bag the next morning.

He learned that sometimes when you’re hit, you stay down and don’t rise. This was the most difficult lesson for him, a fighter by nature, and sometimes by trade. It went against everything in Stan’s character, everything he was taught in the boxing ring.

But when the man standing over you had a look in his eyes, a look that said he had killed many a man before you and for less of an offense, and you saw yourself reflected as something less than human in those eyes, you learned to swallow your pride and be something you’re not.

Unfortunately, Stan learned the hard way that even keeping your head down, doing your own time, and not putting up a fight wasn’t _foolproof,_ it was _cautionary,_ and wouldn’t always protect you.

They cornered him before he realized he was alone, though if there had been other inmates or guards around, Stan doubted it would have made a difference.

He fought, first with fists, and then when his arms were pinned with his teeth, not above biting or head-butting for his freedom. Then one punched him across the face, and another smashed his head against the wall, and through the dizziness of a possible concussion Stan continued to struggle, tasting blood on his tongue and feeling fear as a _living_ entity within him.

They took turns, the three of them, but it was the first thrust that he’d always remember as the worst because it was different from the pain he was used to. It was a pulsing, stabbing agony that cut through the body and hit deep down inside, where things couldn’t be fixed or forgotten, and not even the thick cloud of fright and shame clogging his throat could stop him from _screaming_ as loud as his lungs would allow-

_ _ _

Miles and miles away, in a newly rendered house in Oregon, Ford woke with a soundless scream, the force of which threatened to tear his throat apart.

He sat up in bed, sweating profusely, and found he didn’t recall having a nightmare, though he still had the urge to yell until his voice was hoarse and mute.

But he couldn’t for the life of him understand _why._

 

 

V.

 

Over the thirty years Stan spent searching for a way to bring his brother back, pain became a faithful companion, whether it was the pang of loneliness or guilt that haunted his dreams or the physical toll so many sleepless nights in the basement.

Most of it was the wear-and-tear of age, probably, as the years trickled by without result. Sometimes, though, he wondered if…

Because sometimes he would awake at night and feel a gash on his arm that no in-depth scan in the mirror could reveal or a cringe in the middle of a tour from a horrendous claw gouging at his upper back, and sometimes he would tremble from a sensation of such _exhaustion_ that he would need to sit down.

It reminded him of something called _phantom aches._ A woman he’d met at a mental facility back in his 'loony days’ who had lost her foot to a tractor accident had suffered from them. She would wail from dusk 'till dawn, screeching from a hurt that no longer existed.

And Stan would feel such sympathy for her, wondering what it must be like to grieve and twinge for something lost so long, to so desperately want to press balm to a open wound that couldn’t be touched.

Now, with only a broken doomsday device and two still missing journals his only hope of mending his own fractured heart, Stan was more than sympathetic. He understood.

_ _ _

On the other side of the portal, very far from where his brother toiled, Stanford sat sketching by firelight, enjoying the moment of peace tonight offered.

He wasn’t a fool, moreover, and knew that safety was a luxury, and so he was ready, muscles poised, gun at his side, in the event that anything should so much as blink in the darkness.

Given the nature of the multiverse, not every place he traveled was littered with peril, but more often than not they were. Yet even in the midst of such terrors, sometimes Ford found himself brimming with the excitement of discovery or conquest, so desensitized by the violence necessary to survive.

As science showed, it was remarkable how much a person could adapt when presented with a new, hostile environment.

Of course, there was plenty of room for error along the way, and Ford had a multitude of scars to prove it.

For all the wounds he’d received, large or small, the one that _burned_ in the worst of ways and kept him from sleep the most resonated from his right shoulder.

But the strangest - or perhaps, not so strange, after all - part was that his right shoulder bore _no_ scars to date


End file.
